The Second Winter, page 8
Sensing the violence of his father’s temper, Oskar remained silent. This, though, only infuriated Fredrik more. Oskar had poked a stick into the ass of dogs best left sleeping. How dare he hold his own mother and father up to him as paragons just because of their wealth and their name? Did it make them better than anyone else — these people who had renounced him and taken this same name back from him, their very own son — that they slept in beds their ancestors had made for them and walked in the shadow of kings? What did Oskar know about the Gregersens? They might not have had the luxuries he had had growing up, but Fredrik had never treated his children like fools, and he had never preferred one over the other. Once again, Fredrik’s footsteps ceased. “Stop,” he ordered his son.
Oskar faltered, but he forced himself to keep moving forward.
When his son continued to ignore him, Fredrik’s cheeks reddened. “Turn around and look at me when you speak.”
“We need to keep walking,” Axel said. His eyes were focused on the bend in the road about half a mile in front of them, where the highway disappeared into a small copse. He wondered whether Olaf Brandt had already driven past Ulsted. If they had missed the truck, they had a long day in front of them, and he was nervous about the army patrols around the landing strips above Aalborg.
“Stop and face me,” Fredrik repeated. “Do you hear me?”
At last, ten paces from his father, Oskar stopped. When he turned, the sun caught him in his eyes. It was glistening above his father’s head as if Fredrik’s scalp had burst into flames. At his sides, Fredrik’s hands were gripped into fists that might have been forged from steel, and they, too, shimmered in the sun. In that moment, despite his fear, Oskar remembered an illustration from one of his childhood books. His father had turned the book’s pages with him sometimes before he fell asleep. Thor had stood on a craggy, purple mountain, clasping a hammer with an orange handle and a shiny head. The glossy drawing had been separated from the other pages by a sheet of waxy tissue paper. When the tissue was flipped, the overhead light had flared on the drawing underneath with the intensity of a match being struck.
“Now tell me what nonsense you’re speaking,” Fredrik ordered. When he took a step toward him, Oskar felt his knees weaken.
“There’s no time for a fight,” Axel said.
“I figured you for a coward,” Fredrik said, imagining that Oskar was too afraid to open his mouth again.
But a few more words did escape. “I didn’t know that we needed to steal,” Oskar said.
“Steal?”
Oskar nodded toward the bag clutched under his father’s arm. “I thought that the Gregersens were the ones who had to worry about thieves.”
Acid welled inside Fredrik’s stomach, into his esophagus, strangling him as forcibly as a pair of hands beneath his chin. This soft-skinned, timid boy dared to lecture him? Where did every morsel of food he had ever tasted come from? Who had taught him how to walk? Who tolerated the very beating of his juvenile heart? Oskar had no right to judge him. Unlike with his own father — to whom Fredrik owed nothing — Oskar owed him a debt of gratitude with so many facets that it was impossible to contemplate. Did he not see what his father was doing right now to keep his family fed? How loudly would he still whimper if any of the horrors being suffered by the family of Jews were visited upon Amalia or him instead? Would any of the Gregersens or their dead ancestors come to their rescue then? Fredrik was blinking back his fury when the sputtering growl of an engine broke the stillness behind them.
Axel raised a hand to his forehead, squinted into the glare. “It’s a truck,” he said.
Fredrik took another step toward his son. “Shall I show you what it means to be a Gregersen?” he threatened.
“But it’s not Brandt. Fredrik? It’s a German truck.”
The words penetrated Fredrik’s anger. Behind him, the rumble of the engine was crescendoing. The truck was bearing down on them. From the pitch of the engine, Fredrik recognized it as a heavy diesel. He swiveled around. It was a military vehicle — a troop transport. The cab was painted olive green. The cargo bay was wrapped in black canvas.
“What do you want to do?” Axel asked.
“They’ve already seen us,” Fredrik said.
“Are they going to stop us?” Oskar asked.
“Turn around,” Fredrik commanded, still on the verge of exploding. “Keep walking.”
“Should we run?” his son asked.
“Do as I say,” Fredrik said, “or I will drop you myself. Understand?” His jaw worked as he sought to control himself. “We’ll keep walking. We’re three farmers heading back home from the market. There’s no crime in that.”
Oskar hesitated, then turned and began walking again.
“You can just relax,” Fredrik said. “Act natural. It’s normal to stop and look when a truck approaches you on an empty highway.”
Oskar stopped when Axel and his father did, and the three Danes stood on the side of the narrow road as the dark truck bulked over their shoulders. Barely visible through the flat windshield, three blond soldiers stared them down as they approached, crammed together on the seat in the cab. Oskar met the gaze of one of the soldiers, and the German’s scowl made him shiver. Then they had barreled past. The engine whined as the driver geared down. Catching a glimpse into the cargo bed through gaps in the canvas, Fredrik could see a few crates, a bundle of blankets. Otherwise, the truck was empty.
“There,” Axel said, winking at Oskar. “Danger’s passed.”
“Bastards,” Fredrik muttered. He was starting forward again when the truck slowed to a sudden stop. Its tires screeched on the asphalt. Its engine stalled, then rumbled back to life. Oskar glanced backward at his father, and Fredrik read his worry.
“They’re going to question us,” Axel said. He adjusted his sweater, hiked up his trousers. One of his shoelaces had come undone, but he ignored it. These boots were too small for his feet anyway. The shoe wouldn’t come loose.
The truck’s transmission squealed as the driver found reverse. The tires began to roll backward, and plumes of diesel exhaust spewed from the pipes. Oskar took a step off the shoulder into the mud. He was measuring the distance to the woods — not more than one hundred yards to their right. He could reach cover before the truck could backtrack the distance to them on the road.
“Stay where you are,” Fredrik instructed him. “No reason to panic.”
The three men stood their ground as the truck closed the gap. Fredrik slipped a pill into his mouth. One of Oskar’s legs began to shake. Otherwise, no one moved. The thick, ossified rubber of the truck’s tires chirped on the asphalt as the brakes ground the heavy vehicle to a halt. The engine settled into an idle. The passenger door swung open. A wool-clad leg emerged, booted in rich leather, followed by the thick robe of a long coat.
The soldier who dropped from the truck was a kid, barely older than Oskar. His hair was blond, his eyes brown. A scar disfigured his chin. His front teeth were prominent, separated by a gap. The soldier who stepped onto the asphalt behind him wore a sergeant’s cap. He was taller, older. Maybe thirty, Fredrik thought. He spit onto the road, and his mucus was thick with tobacco residue. Ten feet away, Oskar imagined that he could smell it. The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Do you speak German?” he asked.
Oskar didn’t move. Axel shook his head. “No,” Fredrik said.
The sergeant fiddled with his breast pocket, found a loose cigarette, shoved it into his mouth. His lips were cracked. He shifted his belt, lifted his pistol, located what he was looking for in his hip pocket. A lighter, made in America. He flipped back the lid with a clever flick of his wrist, dragged his thumb over the flint, lit his smoke, then dropped the lighter back into his pocket. When he took the cigarette from his mouth, he held it between his finger and thumb, cupped in a hand almost as large as one of Fredrik’s. His fingertips were stained yellow with resin. The cigarette’s ember glowed on his palm. “Which way are you heading?” he asked. Smoke streamed through blackened teeth. The tip of a purple tongue, coarse with veins, wetted his lips.
Oskar looked backward at his father. Axel shrugged. “Aalborg,” Fredrik said.
“You have your papers?”
“My son is only eighteen,” Fredrik said.
“Yours, then.” The sergeant spit another wad of mucus into the mud.
Fredrik reached into his coat for his identification. His hand grazed the butt of his pistol. The soft suitcase under his arm shifted, and its contents tinkled. Oskar realized that he had been listening to this same music since they had left the shore. This, though, was the first time that he had actually heard it.
“What have you got in the bag?” the sergeant asked.
Fredrik’s fingers tightened on the papers in his breast pocket.
The sergeant inhaled another breath of smoke, let it stream out through his nostrils. “Open it,” he said.
Fredrik withdrew his documents. “Here are my papers,” he said.
“Open the suitcase,” the sergeant repeated.
When Fredrik shoved his documents back into his pocket, his hand was shaking. He wasn’t afraid. It was the lack of sleep. His nerves were shot. He wrapped his fingers into a fist, squeezed. His nails dug into his palm. He knelt, set the soft suitcase onto the asphalt. Rays of sunlight glistened on the torn edge of the strap he had ripped loose when he couldn’t figure out the lock.
The sergeant took a step closer, nudged the expensive leather case with the toe of his boot. “What have you got there?” He rested a hand on his Luger, with his other brought his cigarette to his lips for another drag. “This is a pretty fancy suitcase for a farmer to carry, isn’t it?”
Fredrik’s gigantic hands separated the top of the satchel. The shadow inside hid the jewelry from view. The sergeant craned forward, squinted. His curiosity was palpable. When he caught sight of the slick surface of the gems, he hiccuped, then let out a stream of rancid smoke. Behind him, the young soldier took a step forward, too. The sergeant’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, deliberately, he unsnapped his holster, slid his sinewy index finger behind the pistol’s trigger guard.
Oskar was having trouble catching his breath. His vision had blurred. Panic gripped his stomach. He knew his father well enough to know that he wouldn’t surrender the suitcase to the Germans. When he started running, his flight caught everyone off guard. He had reason enough, but it wasn’t a premeditated decision to flee. His head was light, his legs started to move. He dropped the cashmere coat, pumped his fists, darted as fast as he could toward the trees.
A second passed. Oskar’s footsteps resounded with a wet squish. Then the sergeant drew his pistol. He didn’t issue a warning. He simply grabbed the toggle to cock the hammer and load a bullet into the chamber, straightened his arm. As much effort as Oskar was expending, he wasn’t moving fast. His feet were slipping, the landscape was roiling. The small forest loomed in front of him. He saw a raven land on a twig then jump into the air and soar. A fern caught the sun like an emerald. A dead branch reached toward him like a blackened hand.
The German had the back of the boy’s head fixed in his aim, blocked by the black, triangular edge of the front sight, when Fredrik took hold of his wrist. The sergeant’s finger squeezed the trigger, but the round plugged the soil at Oskar’s feet. Mud splattered Oskar’s legs, the recoil vibrated up Fredrik’s arm. His son kept running. The farmhand’s fingers clamped the German’s forearm, buried themselves into his muscle and sinew, and crushed his bones as easily as if he were sinking his fingers into a block of butter.
The young soldier watched from the corner of his eye as Fredrik snatched the pistol from the sergeant and swung his boot into the sergeant’s shins. The leg splintered with a loud crack, the tall German dropped to his knees. His cigarette tumbled from his lips, hit the pavement with a shower of sparks. In the same motion, Fredrik let go of the sergeant’s arm, ratcheted back the hammer, fired a bullet point-blank into the sergeant’s head. With the crack of the shot, the smell of gunpowder permeated the cold morning. Blood peppered the young soldier. He barely had time to look directly at Fredrik before the gun was cocked again and a second bullet had found its way into his forehead. The force of the projectile sent him sprawling backward. His skull shattered against the asphalt. Then, except for the idle of the truck, it was quiet again. The two dead soldiers rested side by side in an unmoving heap. The sergeant’s cigarette rolled to the edge of the road, where it lay smoldering, sending a weak finger of smoke into the still air.
“What the —” Axel spun around.
Fredrik was still moving. He took a clumsy step, knocked the suitcase flying, scrambled toward the cab of the truck. Jewels spilled across the road like liquefied amber. His eyes met the driver’s in the side mirror. It registered that the driver was another soldier barely older than Oskar and was too stunned to react. The boy’s hand shot not for his gun but for the gearshift. His left foot slammed the clutch, his right the accelerator. The engine screamed, the truck jolted forward. But Fredrik had already reached the open door. He hoisted himself up, then plastered the driver’s brains onto the window next to him with a single bullet. The truck lurched, veered off the asphalt. Its tall, stiff tires sank into the mud.
Oskar disappeared into the woods. Axel shouted. At first, his words were indistinct. Then they took shape. “They’ll kill us. They’ll find us, Fredrik. They’ll find us, then they’ll kill us.”
Fredrik dropped from the cab of the truck. An involuntary erection stabbed his trousers. He was kneeling, gathering the spilled contents back into the Jew’s soft leather satchel when the distant hum of Olaf Brandt’s truck broke the stillness of the morning. His fingers fumbled with a handful of glistening jewelry. When he spit, blood darkened the asphalt. He slid his tongue over his teeth. A front incisor was loose, but he couldn’t recall banging it, couldn’t recall being hit. He spit again, then tucked the suitcase under his arm, raised himself to his feet. Quickly, he searched the sergeant’s pocket for shells, dropped them into the suitcase as well, together with the Luger. The sergeant’s green wool cap barely fit on his head. He was about to straighten up when he remembered something else, and, glancing at the approaching truck, he reached into the sergeant’s pocket again. When he drew out the lighter, he flipped the lid back the same way the sergeant had. His thumb slipped on the flint, though, and he wasn’t able to spark a flame.
Axel was yanking off the soldier’s boots. “It would be better for us if no one sees us here,” Fredrik said to him, snapping the lighter closed. “Even Brandt.” The truck was taking shape in the distance. He took a step off the road, led the smaller man toward the trees.
Oskar was easy enough to find. He was sitting hunched against a tall birch, his head in his hands, sniffling. His father stopped in front of him, tossed the old Jew’s cashmere coat into his lap.
“Come on,” Fredrik said.
“I’m sorry,” Oskar muttered. There was fear in his eyes when he looked up at his father. “I didn’t mean to run.” He flinched when Fredrik extended his hand. When he grabbed it, he was surprised by the tremor in his father’s grasp.
“Come on,” Fredrik repeated. The truck was getting closer. Fredrik let Axel take the lead, then, tearing the dead Nazi’s cap off his head, gave Oskar a shove and followed him into the trees.
The shadows in the forest surrounded them. The wind picked up and rattled the branches. The sun vanished into a bank of heavy clouds. By the time they reached the other side of the woods, rain was falling again, pattering against the leaves. The three men lowered their heads and continued walking.
7.
Back at the Nielsens’ farm, Fredrik stood at the mouth of the barn, peering into the hazy, unlit space. The rhythmic bite of a shovel’s blade echoed inside. The sound swallowed Fredrik’s footsteps, and he approached Oskar without being heard, grabbed the shovel from his hands. Oskar was digging a hole beside one of the posts supporting the roof, where his father had directed. The battered satchel was resting at his feet. The ground in here was packed and dry, and Oskar hadn’t made much progress. Since returning home, he hadn’t yet been inside the house, and he hadn’t had anything to eat. The night was catching up to him. The gunshots continued to resound in his head. He recognized the dull ache behind his left eye. If he didn’t eat something soon, he knew that it would spiral into another headache. “Give me that,” Fredrik said. The farmhand was already wearing his work gloves.
“I can do it,” Oskar said.
“Give me some room,” Fredrik told him.
“The soil is hard as rock,” Oskar said.
“Is it?” Fredrik positioned the shovel a few inches to the side of the shallow pit Oskar had dug. He clamped the handle with a practiced grip, placed a heavy boot on the lip of the shovel’s blade. “This needs to be a deep hole,” he said, glancing at Oskar. “Once we’re finished, we should have trouble finding this suitcase again ourselves.” Then he tightened his hands, balanced himself, drove the shovel into the ground. The blade plunged into the soil like a nail hammered into a plank. The scrape of metal against clay rang in Oskar’s ears. The sound of the rain on the roof swept through the barn like the tide.
HERMANN
8.
Copenhagen. November 1941.
A dark blue Mercedes-Benz rolled slowly down a narrow street, in between stone and plaster buildings, through a drizzling rain. The wipers swept over the flat windshield in weak, uneven arcs. The rubber blades were old, and the chrome arms scraped the glass with a hiss. The city felt deserted. A fire was burning unattended in the gutter. Plumes of soot rose from the flames, swirled into the air, blended with the mist. A wooden crate filled with old clothing had been pulled into the road and torched. Orange shadows undulated on the windows, coloring the driver’s cheeks. The putrid stench of the smoke filled the car. But the driver hardly noticed the blaze. His eyes were fixed on the street in front of him, over the long hood.
